


The Emperor's New Clothes

by Captain_Panda



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, M/M, Shenanigans, Slow Romance, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, and nudity, but not that kind, tomfoolery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27678088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: No, Tony wasn't "flirting with him."Tony was trying to drive him crazy. Steve Rogers would not stand for it.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 32
Kudos: 214





	The Emperor's New Clothes

**Author's Note:**

> Man, it is _close_ between this and "Buddy System" for "Most Ridiculous Fic I've Ever Written."
> 
> Enjoy, my friends. <3
> 
> Yours affectionately,  
> -Cap'n Panda

“Your socks don’t match.”

Tony bit off a raw carrot. “Who has time to match _socks?_ ”

“Would you mismatch _shoes_?” Steve challenged.

Tony arched both eyebrows. “Wasn’t expecting innovation from you at . . .” He checked his watch. “2:39 a.m., but that’s not bad.”

* * *

“Electric blue?” Steve rebuked.

“Matches my eyes,” Mr. Brown Eyes replied, jaunting his electric blue shoe out to one side, clashing horribly with his otherwise mundane white shoe. “You like it?”

“You are _not_ wearing those tonight.”

“I could wear light-up Sketchers.”

“Light-up _what_?”

“. . . Be right back.”

* * *

“Tony, _no_.”

“Tony, _yes_.”

* * *

“Oh, yes, _Captain Rogers_ actually picked these out for me.”

Scowling, Steve turned his back further to Tony and the three dames hanging off his every word—three dames, Stark, _really_ —as he showed off his ridiculous light-up footwear. They giggled in appropriate awe and derision at the choice. Steve wished very much the tequila in hand could make him anything other than sour. “Isn’t he a doll?” Tony went on. “So _thoughtful_.”

More giggles. Steve refused to budge from the bar, even as one of the women said breathily, “Now _that’s_ a real gentleman.”

He was gonna throttle Tony, was what he was gonna _do_.

* * *

“You like the tie?”

Steve took one look at the garish red, white, and blue tie and scowled. “You look like a spiv.”

“A _what_?”

“A spiv,” Steve repeated, sure Tony was spiting him. “You know what it means,” he scowled, stalking off.

* * *

(He was definitely dressed as a spiv: from the rakishly placed trilby hat to the drape-cut jacket, Tony Stark did nothing accidentally.

He still feigned total ignorance of a _spiv_ and used it to describe everything from toasters to laundry chutes until Steve caved, dug out a dictionary, and showed it to him.

When Tony replied cheerily, “Oh, _that_ spiv,” Steve promptly stopped speaking to him for three days. Stark 3, Rogers 0.)

* * *

Steve had had it up to here, and then Tony started walking around _nude_.

“What?” Tony said innocently, as Steve faced a wall and ordered him to put on some damn clothes, Stark, Jesus Christ. “These are my clothes.”

“Hey, Stark,” Clint said, with far too much nonchalance. “Nice shirt.”

“Thanks. Pants are pretty fly, too.”

Clint made a very strong _debatable_ noise that, at least, made Tony bristle back long enough for Steve to toss a blanket over him and order him to put on real clothes.

“All right,” Tony shrugged, walking out with his toga and returning just as naked as before.

It was a particularly long week.

* * *

“What is this?”

“Equality,” Tony replied, wearing a catsuit. A catsuit. A catsuit. It might have been Natasha’s, except the legs only covered mid-thigh. It was as indecent as a fully clothed man could be. It was possibly more indecent than a fully naked Tony Stark, who had become almost a fixture in his own home as a naked, _Bear Grylls_ adventurer.

Catsuit. _Catsuit_. This was what Steve Rogers’ illustrious life had come to.

Not dying of tuberculosis or being crushed under an errant machine or killed by a stray bullet.

Staring at Tony Stark, the smartest, richest, most recognizable man in the world, lounging on _his_ chair in a _catsuit_.

“I quit,” Steve said, and decided to go camping out of state for a while.

* * *

“You went _full_ lumberjack,” Tony appraised three weeks later, wearing what seemed to be suspiciously topical alpine clothes, gesturing meaningfully to his own clean chin. Steve’s was covered in a thick beard.

“It’s cold,” Steve replied, planting his ax in a piece of unsplit wood and eyeing Tony warily. “What do you need?” _Couldn’t have called?_ It seemed an awful long way to come out to Salt Lake City, Utah, just to see him.

Tony shrugged, then unzipped his coat. Steve winced, bracing for the worst, but there was just a plain black t-shirt underneath. “Charity auction,” he explained. “I need you to sign this.” He reached into his coat pocket, producing a silver pen, and instructed, “Pick your poison.”

Sighing—not surprised, no, how could he be?—Steve accepted the pen. “You came all this way . . . so I could sign a t-shirt?”

“I do have a private jet,” Tony admitted, shrugging, disrupting the canvas. Then he grasped both hands and flexed hard, tugging on the shirt. “Been working out, thanks for noticing.”

Sighing, Steve grumbled, “Hold still,” and started to sign right over the left breast, just above his heart. Tony squirmed. “Tony.”

“What? It tickles.”

“Then take it off,” Steve grumbled.

“It’s cold,” Tony parroted, dutifully holding still.

Steve sighed, signed, _S. Rogers_ , and passed him the pen back.

“Great,” Tony chirped, and about-faced and walked away, just like that.

Steve waited, but Tony did not return. After a long moment, Steve shook his head and resumed chopping wood. In the great distance, he swore he heard a jet taking off.

Unreal.

* * *

“Sign,” Tony ordered cheerfully, thrusting a far-too-bare leg salaciously onto Steve’s couch, slapping his own thigh, covered in a far-too-short black fabric, meaningfully. “Chop chop, we’re on the clock.”

“You flew,” began Steve, and then shook his head, sighing as he took the pen and muttered, “Whatever happened to global warming?”

Tony barked an unexpected laugh, said, “Fusion powered engines— _thank_ you,” and kissed Steve’s cheek before he could ask what the hell it was all about.

Confused and strangely warm in his stomach, Steve waited until he was, once again, gone in an instant, before making himself an entire pot of coffee.

It was the only thing he and Stark had in common, he mused, drinking it straight from the pot, black. Clint put an unholy amount of whipped cream on top. 

Damn kid, Steve thought, before sketching Tony Stark as a duck in a business suit.

* * *

Home was home, even if—

“Why?” Steve sighed.

“Wassup?” Tony replied, wearing light jeans and a dark blue shirt with _Captain America is My Boyfriend_ on it. “You’re home.” He shook a box of takeout, offering charitably, “Kung Pao chicken?”

Steve went to his room, considered moving out, and finally decided that it would be more annoying to explain to Fury why he’d broken the landlord agreement over a t-shirt.

A t-shirt. It really couldn’t get any more innocent.

* * *

“Is that _mine_?” Steve asked, scandalized, as he realized the white hoodie he preferred for cold weather was, in fact, draped around Tony’s leaner frame. _Draped_ being the operative word. If Steve had had any doubts that Tony Stark was small despite the ego, proof positive sat in front of him, arching both eyebrows and sitting on the couch, both feet on the coffee table. “Get your feet off that,” he ordered.

Obligingly, Tony did. Frowning, Steve said, “That’s _mine_.”

“And?” Tony challenged.

“Did you take it from my closet?”

Tony shrugged, then, to be a bastard, draped a leg over the back of the couch. “I like to think of it as _our_ closet.”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. Tony shuffled around until both legs were draped over the back of the couch. “Stop sitting like that,” Steve told him.

Tony sighed but obediently shuffled back around. “That’s mine,” Steve said, a third time.

“Cool, so I can keep it,” Tony said, picking up his tablet and rolling his eyes privately. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a straight answer around here?”

Holding up a hand, ready to argue, Steve lowered it after a moment, shaking his head.

Stark wanted his sweater? Fine. They didn’t have to fight about it. Besides, it was hardly hurting anybody.

* * *

All right, it was hurting somebody. _Steve_. Steve needed clothes, and Tony kept appropriating them.

“Give me that,” he ordered, as Tony requisitioned his third sweater this _month_.

Frowning, Tony shrugged out of it—he had a plain white tee underneath, thank _God_ —and chucked it at his head. “Ten points,” he preened.

Steve sighed, complained, “It smells like you,” and scowled when Tony winked.

He could have _washed it_ , but that seemed petty, and J.A.R.V.I.S. would have ratted him out. That was giving in to Tony’s clothes’ warfare. No, Steve wasn’t a coward. He just put it on and dealt with it, like a man.

* * *

Steve didn’t understand the old man critique until Tony hitched khakis halfway to his armpits and wore a button-down on top of it for a S.H.I.E.L.D. meeting, saying calmly, “What, I thought you of all people would support this. I _can_ strip.”

“Don’t.”

“I can,” Tony insisted, tugging out his collar dramatically.

Steve growled. “I _get it_.” Sighing, he said, “Why can’t you just use your damn words?”

“Actions are _so_ much louder,” Tony preened.

* * *

Tony Stark was insufferable. Insufferable!

“Hey,” Tony squeaked, as Steve grabbed him by the back of his shirt and dragged him back into the building. “Help! I’m being murdered!”

“Sad,” Romanoff said from the couch, eating cereal. Steve held onto Tony, sighing and debating the repercussions of telling her that food was for the _kitchen_. They ate popcorn on the couch. Popcorn was served in a bowl. Cereal was served in a bowl. He’d make an exception.

He would not make an exception for the obvious ploy to raise his blood pressure that was Tony Stark in a Howling Commando uniform.

“What? These are my normal clothes,” Tony pouted at him, preempting him.

Annoyed, choked up, and annoyingly pleased at the imagery, Steve ground his teeth so he wouldn’t chew off his head. “Go change,” he ordered.

Tony tilted his chin up. “Make me.”

“Tony,” Steve warned. It wasn’t even _his_ uniform—green, hung up, neatly pressed. No, he had a black shirt and loose brown khakis that was so pitch perfect he wondered how Tony had gotten his hands on it.

 _He’s Tony Stark_ , Steve thought, and realized he could rip the outfit off Tony—thus, Stark, _naked_ , which was actually the last thing he wanted—or he could leave it, which was the second-last thing he wanted.

“Dammit, Tony,” he said, frustrated. “What is this?”

Tony shrugged a shoulder, straightening his shirt with one smooth tug. “Bit on the warm side—” he started.

Steve walked out the door. Tony followed cheerfully, preening, “It’s vintage, actually. Think the ladies will _swoon?_ ”

Tactfully ignoring him, Steve smashed the elevator button. It broke.

They were on the eighty-fourth floor. It was going to be a very long day.

* * *

The ladies did, in fact, swoon. It was one of many reasons why Steve hadn’t put on his own uniform since he’d thawed out. He already got more than enough attention as the world’s most famous former ice cube; he had no desire to draw more looks. But Stark lived on attention. Thrived on it.

Realizing what he had to do, Steve ignored him.

* * *

He ignored the boa phase. He wished he didn’t know that boas were anything other than snakes, and also that he didn’t know that only Tony Stark could make a boa look decent. Hell, Tony would probably look decent with the damn snake, which annoyed Steve. 

* * *

He kept his mouth shut for the capes. The wheeled shoes.

* * *

Tony grew desperate. A desperate Tony was a dangerous thing. Steve expected a return of Stark Naked. Instead, he got . . . Iron Man.

It puzzled him to see Iron Man in the kitchen, cooking pancakes with far less primeval fanfare than grapevine stories about Tony’s lack of prowess in the kitchen would allow. He even flipped one without dropping it, and remembered to turn off the stove, although it seemed slightly belated, like he had almost forgotten to do so. Then he walked away to consume them without ruining the magic.

Genuinely floored, Steve, who had successfully not spoken to a human person in seven days, simply returned to his book, shaking his head in silent wonder.

* * *

“Uh, actually, I _can_ urinate in the suit,” Tony was saying, which was knowledge Steve wished he didn’t have, an accumulating pile that seemed to grow twice as fast as the _knowledge I wish to have_ pile. “What of it?”

“That’s horrible,” Steve said, his voice slightly underused but still, thankfully, functional. Ten days of silence had finally been broken after three days of Iron Man sightings. Steve could stand it no more. “That’s horrible, Tony.”

“You _drank_ piss, you can’t—”

“I did _not_ ,” Steve said immediately, scandalized. “What kind of bar _barian_ practice do you think we—”

“ _Really?_ That’s Survival 101, ‘if in distress, must drink piss.’”

“That doesn’t even rhyme!”

“Yes, it does!”

“Oh my God, just _kiss him!_ ” roared Clint.

The silence was rather pronounced as Steve and Iron Man both stared at each other, floored.

“God damn, I have to do _everything_ in this house,” Clint grumbled, vaulting off the couch and, for good measure, chucking a book at their heads. Steve caught it. “You _assholes_. I had a _bet_.”

“A what?” Tony said, still glaring at Steve through the implacable mask of Iron Man. Steve hoped to God his own shock didn’t register, firmly replacing any traces of alarm with stoicism.

“I’m eating your ice cream,” Clint grunted, retrieving the Rocky Road— _does it taste like asphalt?; yes_ —and sticking a spoon in it.

Steve was so amazed at the outburst he forgot to be angry at Tony, who finally surrendered, stepping out of the suit and squawking, “ _Get your hands off my Road!_ ”

They squabbled energetically over the tub for a while, Clint hissing and clawing while Tony attempted to chew his arm off.

“Oh,” Bruce Banner said, standing in the doorway and looking at Steve for guidance. “This seems normal.”

* * *

One angry trip to the supermarket later— _steam_ was near visibly emitting from Tony, who only agreed to come because Steve invited him, as he had stated ten times—and enough tubs of ice cream to fill an entire cart, Steve dared to ask, “You okay?”

“No,” Tony glowered, chucking a single can of whipped cream on top, in a gesture that was somehow full of spite. “It’s _my_ ice cream. Mine. I _licked_ it.”

Sighing, Steve said, “God, Tony, that’s so unhygienic—”

He froze when Tony grasped his head in both hands and _licked_ him. Scrunching up his nose, he held the pose too long as Tony, his own expression perfectly flat, finally let out a giggle. Tony said, “My God, that’s photo-worthy,” and kept laughing, face crumpled up in pure _joy_ , and it wasn’t fair, was what it was. Tony was all but wearing a tactical suit, complete with indoor sunglasses, and instead of looking like an asshole, he looked _happy_.

With great dignity, Steve wiped his sleeve over his face. He paid for the ice cream, because he was a peacekeeper with backpay and Stark didn’t pay for anything he didn’t have to. “I’m not Hawkeye’s sugar daddy,” Tony went on, with apparent sincerity.

Steve elected not to respond, even though it may have slightly implicated him in the _Hawkeye’s sugar daddy_ case, which was truly horrible.

* * *

And so, life went on. 

Steve had already concluded that Tony Stark was a weird guy. Tony craved attention like most people craved coffee. Except Tony Stark also craved coffee. Really, just, _needy_ guy. 

It sometimes amazed Steve that someone as apparently upright and sober as Ms. Potts could handle him. One week of Stark Naked would have been enough to send even devoted secretaries walking, lawsuits in hand. But it was apparently par for the course with Tony, or else Ms. Potts was simply immune to surprises.

He envied her calm in stormy seas attitude. He liked to think he had the same approach, but Tony, for all his exasperating habits, was equal parts _magnetizing_. Steve physically could not stop himself from at least acknowledging his presence in a room, even if he did not speak on it. And as soon as he acknowledged Stark, curled up in a chair in a luxurious red robe like the rich billionaire he was.

“You look decadent,” Steve told him, in a rare mood of complimentary.

Tony looked at him, cocked his head, and said, “I wasn’t even trying.”

“I can tell,” Steve said, admittedly dry. “If you were trying, there would be glitter.”

Tony huffed a laugh. Steve walked away on good terms.

* * *

Tony in a suit was . . . distracting. 

Tony was always distracting, but Tony, dressed up _nice_ , no funny business—that was something special. 

Steve couldn’t stop looking at him, really. _How do you do that?_

He could hear Stark’s response, holding his gaze. _What’re you looking at?_

_We always go around with questions first?_

Smoothing over the game, Tony toasted him mutely, then drank. Steve watched him, well-aware that he should probably take a leaf from Tony’s book and mingle more.

But God, sometimes—he just wanted to watch.

Enjoy the view.

 _I’m in over my head, aren’t I?_ he mused privately, as Tony turned away from him.

* * *

“If you wanted a sweater,” Steve wrote on the card, “you could have asked.”

He left it at Tony’s door. Unwrapped. He didn’t want to seem desperate, but it was getting colder, and Tony always had cold hands. Maybe that was why he’d stolen Steve’s sweaters—a weird sense of need. Still, he felt good, delivering one that was hopefully Tony’s size—he scaled down one from his own, recognizing optimism but not disappointed that Tony Stark was, in fact, _tiny_ , at least compared to his huge armor and even more illustrious ego—and walking away.

That night, the sweater reappeared. The note was long.

Paragraph 27 read: _Brotherhood of the Meandering Sweater doesn’t have the same ring as “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants,” does it?_

Paragraph 28 explained what _Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants_ was before Steve could become duly scandalized at the talk of women’s undergarments in such a bald-faced way.

In closing paragraphs 49-52, Tony mentioned: _This is what happens when you don’t interrupt me. I keep going. And going. And gone. They had that in baseball, back in the day, right? Of course they did, baseball is timeless_. 

Steve thought: _I knew I was here because of baseball_. 

He read Tony’s uninterrupted spiel: _Let me take you to a game sometime. Actually, no—baseball is boring, let me take you to a modern art museum. I gotta have these firsts, it will haunt me forever if I don’t see it. You know you’re extremely unphotogenic, don’t you?_

Blinking once, surprised at the bluntness and mildly affronted without even knowing what _unphotogenic_ meant, Steve read: _Bet you don’t even know what that is._

He sighed out loud. Maybe he wasn’t so good at the open book thing, either. Peggy had always said he was painfully easy to read, like a puppy begging for scraps. He just looked hungry for something, and she’d always called it _something_ to spare his pride, letting him fill in the blank with machismo declarations like _peace_ and _distinction_ and not something so bold and small as _love_.

 _The pictures never do it justice_ , Tony explained in print, his neat handwriting unbelievably crisp, like he’d practiced every day that Steve had been in the ice perfecting it. _There’s a glow. Even I wasn’t ready for it._

_So, MOMA, 2pm, tomorrow, be there or square._

_Ta, ta._

_T. Stark_

* * *

Tony put on a stupid-looking outfit meant to rile Steve up. It was a maroon-colored clown suit. No, it wasn’t an _actual_ clown suit, but it could have been. He came out smiling, too, just _radiating_ joy, like he knew he’d found the cream of the crop of bad outfits. It was awful. The catsuit was more flattering.

“I don’t even know what to say,” Steve admitted, because honesty was a last resort and he was _there_.

“It’s _My Cousin Vinny_ ,” Tony replied, like that explained it. When Steve frowned at him, he gawked. “You haven’t seen—”

“No, I haven’t seen your cousin Vinny,” Steve scowled. “Does he wear—”

“Shush, shut up, you— _what_?” Tony squawked, like he was genuinely appalled. “I thought that was in the original debriefing file.”

“Why on God’s green Earth would your _cousin_ be in a debriefing file?” Steve demanded.

“He’s not my cousin, he’s—that’s it,” Tony said.

Tony dragged him away from the door, sat him on the couch— _bold_ , today, Steve thought, giving him a strong look that affirmed as much while Tony shrugged carelessly out of his jacket and plopped down next to Steve—and asked J.A.R.V.I.S. to please put on the life-changing _My Cousin Vinny_.

Steve couldn’t imagine how a documentary about Tony’s relatives could be more interesting than a _modern art museum_ , except he forgot, critically, that it was _Tony Stark_ they were talking about.

It was an absolutely delightful film.

* * *

Steve still hated the clown suit. 

“Aw, but it’s—”

“I don’t care if it was handed down to you by your great cousin Vinny or not,” Steve insisted. “It _stays_.”

Pouting, Tony said, “Fine. But it’s still a—”

“ _Scram_ ,” Steve ordered, giving him a gentle push in the right direction.

Tony sighed loudly and went off to change. Steve told J.A.R.V.I.S. confidentially, “He’s got a weird fucking family.”

To his surprise, Tony’s voice responded, “I heard that.”

“Am I wrong?” Steve replied, ignoring the fact that he was arguing with a ceiling.

To that, Tony insisted, “Oh, what- _ever_ ,” and hung up on him, metaphorically.

J.A.R.V.I.S. added kindly, “Any further inquiries, sir?”

Steve sighed. “Not at the moment. Now scram.”

* * *

Tony Stark was an odd duck. Really, just—hard to read kind of guy.

Most guys, easy to read. Food, sex, money, athleticism, power—it was all about something, and that something was usually food, sex, money, athleticism, or a burning desire to be the alpha. As the alpha, Steve could confirm how many guys wanted to take his post, which involved lots of nurturing and hollering. 

Most guys liked the hollering aspect; the nurturing took place with an iron fist. Steve confessed, there were days when _he_ liked the hollering aspect. It was good to be the biggest roster in the chicken pen, even if there were an awful lot of roosters in the chicken pen.

But he took pride in his nurturing. Sure, Bruce had the fear of God in him, and Thor would listen to him as far as he could throw him, and Natasha frightened him on an existential level, but at least there was an understanding that whatever the formal arrangement of power was, Steve Rogers’ word was king and Clint was at the bottom of the telephone pole. 

That was really all Steve needed to be happy.

He had no goddamn clue what _Tony_ wanted. He already had everything on the list, yet he just seemed so . . . so damn _hungry_.

It was an enigma, was what it was. Tony, in normal clothes, puttering around with an air of continuous distraction, yet noticing him, too, looking up briefly, sometimes looking back down without a word, other times offering a brief, friendly nod. They were on the weirdest of speaking terms, where days could go by and Steve barely noticed that he hadn’t seen Tony, and then some day, minutes dragged like hours between sightings, and he found himself missing the guy he lived with.

* * *

One day, Steve got especially curious, and so, he brought the Brotherhood of the Meandering Sweater back to Tony’s quarters. Even he didn’t know why he knocked on the door instead of leaving it like last time.

He heard Tony’s footsteps, light and almost quiet enough to not be there, before he eased the door open. He looked tired, was Steve’s first thought. “Do you know what time it is?” Tony asked.

“0200 hours,” Steve replied automatically.

Tony squinted at him, like he was being funny. Then he said huskily, “No, it’s bedtime.” He looked at the sweater in Steve’s arms, sighed, and said, “You have cosmically bad timing.” Then he swiped the sweater and stepped back, letting the door shut behind him.

Steve told the closed door, “You’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” Tony called back, dry and unimpressed. “You can leave, now.”

“You okay?” Steve asked.

There was a long pause. He didn’t hear footsteps, though, and he was stubborn, waiting it out. Finally, he was rewarded. “What’s it to ya?” Tony asked, deliberately provocative, throwing the ball back at him.

Steve shrugged even though Stark—probably—couldn’t see it. “Well,” he said, and then, truthfully, “I don’t know. You’re my teammate?”

“Try again.”

“We’re friends?”

The door slid open. Tony did look very tired. “I haven’t slept in two days,” he said. “So, I’m gonna need you to cut the crap or leave me be.”

“I don’t understand,” Steve admitted. Honesty was dangerous. Honesty could lead anywhere.

Tony looked at him for a long, long moment. Then he said, “I haven’t slept in two days,” to—justify, gripping the sweater in one hand and Steve’s jaw in the other, and kissing him firmly.

Sonuvabitch knew how to kiss, Steve thought, struggling to understand the why to where to what and how that led to this moment, looking at Tony’s world weary eyes, trying to understand if he had somehow imagined his first kiss since 1945 except—no, no, that was real. This was real.

 _My God_ , he realized. “You,” he started, and had something to say, maybe, except Tony sighed, snagged him by the shirt, and tugged him forward, into his sanctum sanctorum.

It was—not, what Steve expected. For all Tony’s outward extravagance, his den was fairly sparse, with a minimum of furniture—a bed, two chairs, a stout nightstand, and a dresser—and almost no decorations. He half-expected Iron Man paraphernalia everywhere, red and gold splashed across the walls, but the sparsity reminded him of a space between homes, where nothing was really lived in. No comfy chair or warm colors or living memories in the form of knick-knacks. Just bare walls and floors and necessities tucked away. Except for its size and obvious craft of care, it was impossible to tell it belonged to Tony at all.

It seemed very sad. Lonely, even. A word that, suddenly, made the rest of it make sense.

Tony, true to his word, released him—the door clicked shut behind them, automatically—and beelined back for the mussed-up sheets of the bed, the only sign that he’d been sleeping. He dropped the sweater carelessly on the floor along the way. Steve folded it and set it on the dresser instead. Tony uttered against the bed, “Make yourself at home.”

Entirely sure he must be dreaming, Steve wandered, sifting through drawers. Most of Tony’s wardrobe, he realized, was painfully plain. It was as if the last few months had been a dream. Then he found the red boa draped casually over the bathroom door and sighed in exasperation and relief.

He found the rest of it, too—the door to Tony’s soul had been left wide open, and he nosed through the closet, which was also strangely empty. Tony snored on the bed, giving up on entertaining him. That was fine by Steve—he sifted silently, patiently, more curious than afraid he was somehow violating a boundary.

 _Make yourself at home_.

And then he found something he wasn’t expecting, a leather jacket, worn and clearly on its last legs, too fragile to be let out into the world. A lump formed suddenly in his throat, and he eased it off its rack, staring at it in wonder.

“Tony,” he said, voice soft but prodding, and Tony sniffed once loudly and rolled over, squinting at him again, like he couldn’t believe he was being interrupted _twice_. Then he sighed, planted his face in the mattress, and said:

“S’yours if you want it.”

Steve—he—he held onto the strangely fragile jacket, feeling strangely fragile, himself, imploring; “How did you get this?”

“Resourceful,” Tony uttered against the bed. It was barely audible, even with Steve’s superhearing. He was falling back asleep.

“Tony,” he pleaded.

Tony groaned but rolled over, one hand draped over his eyes like the soft ambient lighting was too much. “ _What_?” he demanded. “You want me to tell you—” Then he reeled in the anger, sighing and saying, “It’s nothing, Cap.”

“It’s _mine_ ,” Steve said, his voice plaintive, awful, sad, hungry. He’d lost his jacket to the war—lost _everything_ to the war—and it wasn’t wearable, it had aged like him, it had aged despite him, and now, here it was again. A keepsake. “I—”

“Just take it,” Tony said, his voice still hushed with sleep, immune to anger or chagrin. “If it’s yours—”

But that wasn’t— _enough_. He laid the jacket on the bed, afraid to touch it, to break its tender tissue. He pleaded a third time, “Tony,” but Tony shut his eyes, listening but not responding. “I—” He picked the jacket up and, not allowing himself to fear breaking it, pulled it on, very, very slowly.

It was uncomfortable, stiff, degraded. And it still fit like a glove.

“You look nice,” Tony murmured, eyes firmly shut. “I can’t see it. But I know.”

Steve shut his own eyes, anguish filling him up like ice water. Slowly, he pulled it off. He replaced it on the rack, mute, unable to speak. Tony sighed, “Come here.” Steve didn’t respond. “ _Baby_. Come here.”

It was a stupid thing to say, to respond to, but Steve did, kicking off his shoes and flopping down beside Tony, graceless and desperate not to feel so damn empty inside.

Tony grumbled a lot, rolling over, and flopped half on top of him. He didn’t open his eyes. His arc reactor glowed slightly, even under his shirt. He uttered, “Please, God, go to sleep.”

Steve wormed an arm around Tony’s waist, feeling something settle in his chest as he did so. Tony’s breathing evened out quickly, and Steve listened to it for a long time, not sleeping but not sad the same way, close as they were.

It was all very confusing, really, and very simple. He let Tony cling to him, and he listened to Tony breathe in return, and everything felt like home again.

* * *

Actually, nearly all of Tony’s zanier contraptions were in the lab. The altered shoes, the flowing capes. The infamous catsuit. 

According to Tony, it wasn’t a catsuit at all but a repurposed undersuit, which was decidedly less scandalizing and more appealing in its original, full-length form. Steve still gave Tony a solidly unimpressed look when he offered to let Steve try it on, one hundred percent confident it would tear, which seemed to be Tony’s goal. Instead, he watched Tony Stark in his briefs struggle and curse and finally successfully zip the undersuit in place, all the while swearing he would fix the skintight problems in the upcoming models.

Steve was—bewildered. Entranced. He ran his hands down the flanks of it, smooth and powerful, and had to kiss Tony, because it was a newer, better way of expressing appreciation.

Tony Stark really was an enigma.

* * *

A beautiful one, Steve thought, as he watched Tony mingle politely for a while before coming over and clinking glasses once. “You look ravishing,” Tony murmured, quiet enough he may not have spoken. Nobody else could hear it, even those near enough to catch a glimpse of them, Steve realized. It was thoughtful. Oddly touching.

“So do you,” Steve replied honestly.

Tony made a weird face at him, halfway between a grimace and a smile, like he didn’t quite believe it but accepted it. And so, Steve said, again: “You’re beautiful.”

“Stop,” Tony uttered, sipping his drink and muttering around the edge, “flatterer.”

“You know, if you didn’t _try_ so hard, you’d be beautiful all the time,” Steve said, except that wasn’t entirely true. He already was, even in the goddamn clown suit.

“Damn,” Tony said, keeping the glass near his lips, making a show of swirling it. “Now I feel bad about the shirt.”

“What shirt?” _Which one?_ Steve didn’t add, tempting as it was.

Letting out an aggrieved sigh, Tony shook his head, lowered his drink, and squeezed Steve’s wrist in passing. “Later. I’ll tell you later.”

And then he was gone, again.

* * *

“Tony,” Steve said, exasperated and—amused, honestly, as Tony Stark, _the_ Tony Stark, blushed.

“Look,” Tony began, then, crumpling up the signed shirt into a ball, insisted, “It’s for posterity, you don’t sign _anything_. Besides—I _could_ sell it for charity. I could.”

“I love you,” Steve said innocently, honestly, because only Tony would fly across the country to get him to sign something. _For posterity_. “You know,” he mused. “I forget, sometimes, that that’s—” He shook his head, and Tony cocked his own quizzically, waiting. _How patient of you_ , Steve thought, but he went on obligingly: “That’s what people pay for. _Captain America_. It’s a botched shirt,” he said, indicating the silvery print. “Can’t sell that.”

Tony blinked once, then said seriously, “Idiot logic. I love it.” He chucked the shirt casually aside, like it wasn’t precious to him—and Steve could see, despite his carefully blank demeanor, that it _was_ , and that made his heart feel all kinds of funny but mostly good funny and maybe a little sad funny on Tony’s behalf—and then said, “I’ve really been _exceedingly_ patient about all this,” before grabbing Steve by his collar and hauling him into a kiss.

* * *

Dating Tony Stark was weird. At times, Steve wasn’t honestly sure they were dating—sometimes, it seemed like they were just friends who did weird stuff together, stuff that he wouldn’t have considered much fun with other, less weird people. Tony continued to take an unjustifiable pleasure in shock-and-awing him, which at times made him think, somehow, that their whole relationship was an exceedingly friendly version of twenty-first century etiquette regarding one’s best guy.

When he finally voiced as much aloud, Tony gave him a very pointed look, sipped the rest of his milkshake loudly enough to be teeth-grinding, and finally said, “Gay chicken.”

Steve didn’t see what a bird had to do with anything, or if chickens could even be ‘gay’—he was afraid to ask, as revealing his own ignorance rarely ended well—and finally echoed, “Gay chicken?”

Tony launched into an appropriately lengthy spiel about it, which thoroughly embarrassed Steve’s previous expectations that he knew twenty-first century nomenclature well—he knew _nothing_ —and finally ended with, “Please tell me you’re actually _into_ guys.”

Steve looked briefly at the milkshake Tony had stolen from him, then the bean bags they were seated on, and finally the rest of Tony’s lab, absorbing the fact that Tony had let him interrupt his work so they could hang out because, “I haven’t seen you all day,” and he, himself, could always go for a snack. 

Meeting Tony’s gaze, pensive and dark and rich brown, Steve shrugged and said, “I like this. I like being with you. Ain’t that enough?”

Tony hummed, setting aside the drink. “Sure,” he breezed. “I’ve always thought we could be just—”

But Steve cut him off at the pass, insisting, “I like _you_.” And he was surprised how true it was. “I like bein’ with you. I miss you, you know, when you’re gone, when you’re not around. And even when you drive me up a wall, I still think . . . I can’t misjudge you, Tony, you’re a real swell guy. Don’t ask me what it means,” he insisted, a touch pathetically for a guy who dove headfirst into fights he could not hope to win. He bulled through the hesitancy, insisting, “No, I do know what it means. It means I’m sweet on you. And that’s—”

Tony kissed him. He relaxed. Tony got it.

“Good,” Tony said, as he flopped onto Steve’s chest, pushing him more into the big bean bag, a strange chair for a strange world. “I don’t need more. I have you.”

And Steve thought, _I’ll give you more_ , because he hated the thought of being the bare minimum for Tony Stark, being anything less than _profoundly_ enough, delivering more than what Tony deserved.

* * *

So, he was.

More gentle than he needed to be, more awake to the fact that, maybe, it wasn’t all ego, wasn’t all about picking a _fight_ ; sometimes, it was about being noticed. 

He understood why Tony left the replacement sweater on the dresser and wore Steve’s when he was sick. “It’s like a hug,” Tony tried to explain, pathetically nasally as he huddled in his chair, working from his den. “That’s all. No meta, there.” 

And it smells like you, he didn’t say. And it’s bigger than I need, so it covers every inch I need it to, he didn’t add. Steve knew. He could read between the lines.

Clothes were interesting, when he really paid attention to them. His worn-down leather jacket made him feel incredibly sad, as did the Howling Commando uniform Tony had duplicated. His modest concessions to low rise jeans seemed hardly scandalous after Tony’s bare-ass march around the Avengers Tower. He still scorned the wheelable shoes and extravagant hats, but he appreciated Tony’s creativity in scandalizing him. As he took pleasure in reminding Steve, he could have been buck-naked from the start.

“Please don’t use buck in that sentence,” Steve said, grimacing. He was certain that, were he present, Bucky would have high-fived Tony for creativity in his courtship. It was a thought that made Steve both sad and slightly relieved Bucky wasn’t there to follow through. “That’s all I ask, Tony.”

“Seems like a lot,” Tony murmured, working on a suit in the background. “I mean, what _does_ a guy gotta do to get a little sugar around here?”

Sighing, Steve said, “ _Ask_ , maybe?”

Tony repeated his words meanly, but instead of making Steve want to fight, it just made him fight a smile. 

Tony was one swell fella. A sonuvabitch about it, make no mistake, but a slice of something special, regardless, and Steve dedicated himself to the task of making up for lost time every time Tony let him near.

He wasn’t walking away, this time. Not a chance.

* * *

They argued—a lot, about everything, really. And yet they also got each other’s lonely like nobody else. When Tony came up to him, Steve knew how to make that loneliness smaller, literally holding it—him, in his arms.

No boas required.

Tony _did_ offer to bring it back. Steve just sighed, and Tony beamed, adding a silent tally to an invisible scoreboard. 

Check one for both of them—as long as they were together, they couldn’t lose.


End file.
